The Guy and The Girl

Eminem gets closer to a guy, whereas Yelawolf gets closer to a girl.

“I feel a passionate lust when I'm imagining just us alone at last with a touch

I see you grasping to trust, but my intentions are good

The seed is passing in dust

I'm not asking to rush and answer immediately

I just wanna be there for you and you to be there for me

If you agree to repeat after me, I love you (I love you baby)”

-          “Searchin’”, Eminem featuring Denaun Porter

 

As it turned out, James wasn’t too young for Marshall. Surprisingly enough, the thirty-nine year old had the physical (and sexual) capability to keep up with his young lover. Sure Marshall was exhausted at the end of every day and at night he was in desperate need of a cigarette, but that just pushed him to hit the gym more. James didn’t mind in the least about the age difference- he liked the maturity and was attracted to the intelligence.

 

James, to Marshall, was like a superhero. He would make Marshall breakfast in the morning, do his laundry, clean the house, and even mow the lawn- all to Marshall’s protests. However, it was very difficult to protest someone who did most of these chores in nothing but boxer-briefs; so, the man acquiesced.

 

What also made the young man a superhero was the way he treated Marshall. Compliments, tender hugs, soft kisses, and dozens of roses every day was enough to make Marshall’s heart swell. He might even say that he was in love, but indirectly. He remembers one occasion with Royce in the studio, working on the Slaughterhouse album.

 

James knocked on the door to his office, grinning. For once he wasn’t lugging around the huge cart with food that he couldn’t eat or mail that he couldn’t read (aside from his boyfriend’s fan letters). Nope, it was just him and a little surprise.

 

“Come in, James,” Marshall shouted. It really could’ve been anybody, but Marshall had memorized James’ knock by now.

 

“Delivery for Mr. Mathers,” and Marshall bit his lip, lifting his head away from the sound mixers he was so diligently practicing on. He looked to James and God, was he a vision.

 

“James…you didn’t have to,” Marshall said, blushing. It’s what he always says when James comes in.

 

“Here you go, love,” James whispered, a little kiss on his boyfriend’s head as he passed him a dozen roses- white and red abound.

 

“Thank you so much, babe,” Marshall whispered back with embarrassment lingering there. James left after a handshake with Royce and a compliment to his jacket.

 

Royce looked at his partner with a s**t-eating grin. Marshall attempted to cower away.

 

“You like him a lot, don’tchu?” Royce asked, poking Marshall in the arm. The older man looked away, biting (no, gnawing) on his lip with a red flush in his cheeks still prominent there. Marshall just nodded.

 

“You love him, don’tchu?” Royce asked, a bit more serious. He knew what happened the last time.

 

Marshall’s face went pale, because he knew the answer. He also knew what this feeling brought him the last time he felt it. He cleared his throat.

 

“Um, I think we should speed up the bass for this track,” and that was the last they spoke of it.

 

Regardless of what Marshall felt for this man, he couldn’t deny that he loved spending time with him. Every day, however, he worried constantly about his health.

 

“You should wash that first.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s clean.”

 

“Make sure you don’t cut yourself.”

 

It was an anguish-filled battle for Marshall. He didn’t want to make any mistakes or forget any precautions. He wanted to make sure James was here for a very long time.

 

“I’m fine, sweetie,” he would say. He always said that. And what do you know? Marshall then has to make a trip to the E.R. at eight ‘o’ clock at night because James cut himself with a knife. He wasn’t even cut deep, but he always ended up with a cold.

 

Thank God James always seemed to get better, but what wouldn’t get better were the stares that they got for the amount of condoms that they bought. It always felt like people were judging him and his young partner, but it wasn’t like they could stop it.

 

What they also couldn’t stop was the sex itself. Marshall was pushed to his limit every night but James always wanted James’ forceful thrusts and wicked games stupidly- unable to make any coherent words come from his mouth as his boyfriend pounded into him.

 

And now here they were, delirious and silly. Marshall was drawing lazy circles on James chest when he broke the silence.

 

“Ya’know, you could have anybody in the world, James…why me?” the older man whispers into the phantoms of the night.

 

“Whadya mean by that?” James responds, furrowing his brow. Marshall feels the stirring vibrations of James’ words on his chest and shudders.

 

“Well, yer young, fer starters. Yer good lookin’, ya have a fly car, good payin’ job…not ta mention how charmin’ and witty you are, plus yer so sweet…I don’t know,” Marshall shrugs sighing. “I’m the rusty, demented fork in the bottom o’ the utensil drawer that nobody uses. Why me?”

 

James pauses for a few moments, stroking Marshall’s arm and awakening goose-bumps. He takes a deep, luxurious breath.

 

“I don’t know. For some reason, those cute guys at the gym never did it for me. When I got that job with you, I was just so excited to go in every day. It was stupid and trivial, so I tried to tell myself that the only reason I liked it was because I was working for Eminem, I mean God! But it wasn’t like that. It was never like that. It was just something about you.”

 

Marshall is just so flattered that his heart throbs in his chest. He takes a deep breath like James did.

 

“James, I love you.” And James squeezes Marshall so tightly to him that Marshall feels as though he may faint.

 

“I love you too, Marshall. God, I love you so much.” But as James kisses Marshall’s head, the only thing wrapped around Marshall’s mind is what Yela would say if he told him how much James cares about him.

 

~*~*~

 

Yelawolf was actually not too fond of FeFe when they first met. He found her quite annoying and strange; like an imbalance in the definition of natural, she was quite normal on paper but very odd when spoken to. What Yela did like about her though, was her style and passion. While chewing on a piece of gum and blowing condescending soap bubbles in the rapper’s face, she laid down some incredible vocals in the booth.

 

With squeaky high notes and drawling low crescendos, she seemed to capture the cracks and plush acrobatics of Michael’s life. She winked at him through a thick plastic force-field, and he couldn’t help but think how much Marshall would love her.

 

And so, since he believed Marshall would love her, he decided to love her too.

 

He remembered looking at her in a general store from his car the day after they recorded the song. It was late and there was nobody around, except for one creeper in a Chevy, spying on a black girl with red highlights in her hair.

 

She bobbed around in there, aisle to aisle, picking up some cigarettes (a brand that he failed to recognize) and a Mountain Dew. The girl drank straight out of the bottle before even paying for it- a Korean owner

not at all pleased and yelling at her. He decided to walk in when she flipped him off.

 

“You pay fo’ dat right now or you leave, got dat?” the man rattled away. Yela smiled and tapped her shoulder.

 

She whipped her hair around somewhat dramatically, startled by the sudden disturbance.

 

“Whatryou doin’ here, whiteboy?” she asked giddily. Yela chuckled.

 

“To see you…” he said vaguely. He pushed his hands deep into the grey folds of his sweat-shirt, hood stretched over his head shyly. She raised her eyebrows.

 

“Oh?” she uttered, curious. Just then, a frustrated woman with a stroller and a miserably stubborn baby entered the store. Yela had seen it all before- experienced it even. But when he looked at FeFe, he saw an awe-inspiring alignment in her eyes. When the woman sighed, she looked up at Michael, then FeFe.

 

“You know how it is,” she stated with a smile. Before Michael could nod appropriately, FeFe spoke up.

 

“Yeah…” she said distantly.

 

Michael looked to her again, seeing hope in her eyes. No, FeFe did not have any children, but she damn well knew what it was like to be one. Michael gritted his teeth.

 

He might not have been able to keep his childhood, but he would make sure FeFe preserved hers.

 

~*~*~

 

“Wait a minute, he said what?”

 

“He said that you were anal.”

 

James and Marshall were entering the Shady Records building in a fit of obnoxious laughter, talking about Slaughterhouse like gossiping teenagers.

 

“No way! I’m gonna have a lil chat with Ry Ry about that,” Marshall said, giggling. James chuckles, wrapping his hand around his adorable boyfriend’s.

 

“But it’s true…you can’t deny that.” James and Marshall were approaching the rapper’s studio, completely unaware of the stares they were getting from people on the floor.

 

“Yeah, but I’m not that bad,” Marshall reiterates. “You know I-“

 

“Hey Marshall.”

 

And suddenly the laughter dies and James’ face goes dark as he looks at the face of the man who made his lover cry. The kid has quite a bit of remorse in his eyes mixed with nervousness, but Marshall is at a loss for words. He releases James’ hand to twiddle his thumbs.

 

“Um…hey Wolf,” Marshall says quietly. He doesn’t look at the kid’s face, but rather the handful of flowers he’s holding.

 

Yela doesn’t even know why he got them. He wanted to have a peace offering in store just in case Marshall wasn’t in the mood for apologies. Apparently, his constant phone calls and inappropriate appearances were quite annoying to the legendary Hip-Hop figure. Although, looking back on it, maybe a ‘sorry’ or a KRS-One mixtape would’ve sufficed.

 

He remembers going through the flower shop, out of his element and quite mortified (a tatted freak buying flowers isn’t something you see every day).

 

Roses? F**k no.

 

Lilies? Are you high?

 

Daisies? You must be drunk.

 

Mixed floral arrangements? Sure, why not?

 

So here he was, standing in front of his boss with a handful of flowers that he couldn’t even begin to think about the names for, waiting for Marshall to say anything else.

 

“Are…those aren’t for me, are they?” Marshall asks nervously, as if begging for a ‘no’. S**t.

 

“Y-yeah,” Yela stutters. Suddenly he’s very afraid of the muscle man standing next to his boss, looking as if he wants the kid dead and gone mafia style. Marshall looks surprised, but blinks his eyes several times in order to hide his emotions- something that intrigues Yela. He was never very good at that, but Marshall evidently was.

 

“Can we, uh, talk inside…alone?” Yela suggests, but Mr. Boyfriend’s jaw locks and he feels like the man is burning him alive in his mind. F**k.

 

“Um, sure…” Marshall answers hesitantly. James is floored, but Marshall looks at him with pure love in his eyes, so he gives in.

 

Yela is jealous of the exchange, but confidently walks into Marshall’s studio. The older man closes the door and strangely locks it, like James is an animal waiting to strike. Or maybe, Yela is the animal perhaps.

 

“I wanted to give you these…to tell you that I’m sorry,” Yela says, passing the assorted florals to

Marshall gravely. Marshall still won’t look him in the eye and it’s pissing Yela off to no end.

 

“Thank you,” Marshall says with awe in his voice- something that Yela rarely heard from him. The older man took a deep sniff of the flowers, drowning in their natural perfume. “This is so sweet of you.” And Michael feels his heart flutter in his chest- a feeling he was not expecting.

 

“Well…you’re welcome,” but he needs to say some other things too. He waits until Marshall finally (finally!) looks up at him. “I just want you to know that, I’m here for you. I’m not gonna be an ignorant f**k anymore or tell you how to live your life. I wanna be a friend that you can rely on. I want you to know that I support you and your lifestyle.” After the last word is spoken, Michael takes a deep breath and a long silence hits the air.

 

“Wow, Michael…that means,” Marshall huffs out a breath in shock. “Geez that means the absolute world to me,” and he gives Michael a dazzling smile. Another flutter.

 

“Well, ya’know…I was an a*s and I wanted to let you know that if you’re happy, I’m happy.” Michael smiles too.

 

“Oh, I am happy. So happy!” Marshall says excitedly.

 

And, for a glimmer of a moment, Michael thought that it was because of him.

 

“Without you, James and I would’ve never even started dating!”

 

Michael’s smile falls.

 

What a goddamn fool he was for thinking that he could ever make Marshall Mathers happy. Not with James around.

 

~*~*~

 

Michael was probably too drunk to drive. He didn’t care; not necessarily because he was drunk and that impaired his judgment, but mostly because he was broken and could fix him. You tend not to care about things when you’re broken.

 

He refuses to cry like he did a couple nights ago after leaving Marshall’s home. His Chevy had become like this captivating manipulation of agony and sorrow: a place where he could run away from his problems and drown in them all the same.

 

Yet no matter what he did, he never forgot his problems.

 

So maybe he would’ve cared that he was drinking and driving if the whiskey made the problems leave. Maybe he would’ve cared if he was killed by going the wrong way or drifting out of his lane. Maybe he would’ve cared if Marshall wasn’t with him.

 

He wants to punch that guy in the face. He wants him dead. He wants to cut off the hands that got to hold his boss every night. He wants to rip the dick off that makes love to his boss every evening. He wants to cut open the heart that makes Marshall smile.

 

Alcohol makes you think crazy things.

 

So when he gets home he cries. It was like a little game that he played with himself: go without crying for as long as you can, and when you get home you can fall in a fit of miserable sobs if you want.

 

He wails and moans and drops to his knees like a drunken mess, intoxicated by his sadness.

 

Why doesn’t he love me?

 

Alcohol makes you think crazy things.

 

“Michael? Michael!” FeFe hollers from the front steps. She’s till in her pajamas from last night. She was staying with the rapper in Detroit for a while as he completed his album. Michael had done some strange things, like eating his pickles with hot sauce, but not as strange as this. He’s sounds like a dying moose.

 

She wraps her arms around him- ignoring the stench of whiskey- and attempts to console him, but it’s damn near impossible. It’s almost as if he doesn’t feel her, as if she’s not there, like she’s a ghost hovering over him.

 

Now he’s vibrating with sobs, completely at the mercy of his misery, drowning in his sorrows.

 

“No…”

 

“Michael, shhh, you have to relax,” FeFe whispers, holding him closer.

 

“No…No! I want him! Not you!” he screams, shoving her off of him. FeFe cowers away, shocked by Michael’s admission but not registering his words. He lifts his head and looks at her, his face blotchy and red. He takes some deep breaths and realizes that his vision is so blurred by alcohol that he can’t even see her face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers quietly into the night. She shudders and falls into the wall behind her, finding Michael so incredibly beautiful in his bleak vulnerability. The light hit his face perfectly from the glass of the window, and his eyes were bright with tears. All she really wants to do right now is kiss him.

 

Michael has given really everything he has in this fateful day. He gave Marshall flowers, an apology, the world…and he was denied. He looks into FeFe’s eyes and sees want, care. Now was his opportunity to capture a pure kindness without the dreaded betrayal. As he approaches her gently, he realizes that FeFe can give him what Marshall can’t.

 

He places his hands on FeFe’s cheeks, a stark look of wonder in her eyes and perhaps a burning nothingness in his. He decides to close the distance between them, closing his eyes into a tightened blackness so strained and dumb. He tastes a million lies on her lips.

 

All that surrounds him is Marshall. Marshall’s lips. Marshall’s skin. Marshall’s scent. Marshall’s mind. Everywhere he feels him…and only him.

 

Alcohol makes you think crazy things.

 

And as he deepens the kiss, he discovers that FeFe has nothing to offer but a body. As if she was a phantom that he imagined- a personal Marshall that he could conjure up but with the face of a dramatic, black woman.

 

And that was the exact moment when Michael Wayne Atha realized that he was horrendously, helplessly, disgustingly in love with Marshall Bruce Mathers III.

 

~*~*~

 

Yelawolf and Eminem have something very peculiar in common. One would say it was a coincidence; others would say Yelawolf was just making it up. But the honest to God truth was even proven by his mother.

 

It’s the reason why Eminem puts his seatbelt on when he drives; why he put it on when James told him to that one night.

 

It’s the reason why Yelawolf only drives in a Chevy; the reason he asks his car dealers how safe his rides are and what the crash test ratings were.

 

It’s the reason why Yelawolf thinks he and his boss are meant to be together. Why else would they have survived for?

 

It’s the reason why Eminem can’t get the kid off of his mind every day. As if this were some sign made by God himself.

 

When Radioactive finally did come out in November, winter was right around the corner. It wasn’t as cold as anyone suspected, and little to no snow ever fell. Yela was still uncomfortable being around his boss, but it was needed in order for his freshmen release to get the hype going so his album would be successful.

 

He actually almost threw up every time he saw his boss, knowing that every inch of his body was touched and loved and cherished by that piece of trash he called his boyfriend. But still, he was remarkably enchanted by the older man…like a teenage crush gone horribly wrong. He didn’t even think to himself- not for one single moment- that he was having these feelings for a f*****g man. He was a walking, hypocritical, nonsensical mess. But he had to act like he wasn’t.

 

“Hey Yela,” Marshall says sweetly. Yela feels his lunch churning inside of him. They were getting ready for a VIBE magazine spread, getting their makeup done too for some reason. It really didn’t matter to Yela as long as he got to see his Marshall. Like he owns him or something.

 

“Hey,” Yela says softly.

 

“So I heard that tomorrow we gonna be doin’ a shoot by a junkyard for the interview portion,” Marshall says as sort of a forced ice breaker. It’s mostly been business between him and Yela, strangely. The kid had been acting weird ever since he gave Marshall the flowers.

 

“Oh yeah?” Yela says distantly. He looks at the makeup mirror- a person he doesn’t recognize staring right back at him- since he just can’t look at his boss right now.

 

“Yeah,” Marshall says excitedly. “They even want ya ta do some Graffiti art on this stone backdrop that they got.” Yela knows that his boss is trying to entice him, but it’s not working. If he said he broke up with his boyfriend and stripped down naked, maybe he’d be more excited.

 

“Cool…” The kid gets a sad look in his eyes, and Marshall’s at a loss for how to cheer hum up- he doesn’t even know what’s wrong with the kid in the first place.

 

“Hmm…maybe we could get some Chevys in there too if ya want?” Marshall offers. Yela just sighs. “Ya’know, I remember being in a Chevy once…with ma mom,” Marshall starts. Yela finally looks up at him.

 

“You used ta cruise ‘round in Chevys?” Yela asks, bewildered.

 

“Yeah…when ma mom actually had enough money for a car,” Marshall says, laughing. Yela smiles.

 

“Wow…ya’know, one time I got inta this really bad accident, like f****n’…we almost died ‘n’ s**t…me ‘n’ ma mom…”

 

“No s**t? That happened ta me ‘n’ ma mom too, man. No bullshit!” Marshall confesses, bewildered as well. The kid’s eyes go wide.

 

“Really? Geez I was about fi’ years old ‘round that time. Car flipped ‘n’ errythang. Semi came t’wards us.”

 

“Me too! Jesus…you ain’t makin’ this up?” Marshall asks, surprised by the startling similarity. “I was like five or six too when that happened. Semi too. Me ‘n’ ma mama were pullin’ onto the freeway when it hit us. Scared outta ma mind, man.”

 

And they had this brief moment of understanding and complete wonderment. Marshall couldn’t believe that they had this one little thing in common- so massive yet so odd. Michael felt so close to his boss, yet so far away. He wasn’t there to protect him. As silly as it may sound, he wishes that he was there to take all of the fear away- fear that occurred so many years ago.

 

It’s mostly for the fact that the fears clogging Michael’s mind were so traumatic that he wanted to dissolve the fears of others. Especially for his boss.

 

“Damn…I think I gotta call ma mama ta make sure I ain’t lyin’. That’s fucked up!” Yela says.

 

“Ya got that right,” Marshall agrees, smiling. “C’mon, let’s do the shoot,” he says, offering his hand.

 

Michael feels his heart soaring and grabs his boss’ hand- not completely believing that it exists.

 

Marshall, to Michael, was like this phantom that haunts him throughout every day. The image of him is so altered and forced- sometimes Michael believes that the Marshall he imagines is more spectacular than the real thing, but now, in this moment, he knows that that can’t be true. No, right now, Marshall is real.

 

Marshall is absolutely perfect. And the sad thing is, Michael knows that he will never even be close to perfect. Never.

 

“How do you go to sleep at night,

If I'm not the one sleeping with you?

B***h didn't I treat you right yeah that's how the story goes

Wasn't I always there for you?

Now you just another song for me to write

A lullaby, so let me sharpen up my number 2

So how do you go to sleep at night, b***h

If I'm not the one sleeping with you?”

-          “Sleep at Night”, Rittz featuring Yelawolf

Author's Note

Next chap. Let me know what you think, I know it's really angsty and more cutesy than I would've liked. Whatever. Grammar issues are probably in there because I was too tired to proofread it. Enjoy!